Different People
by sangre antigua
Summary: Since coming back from Hell, Dean's a different man. Sam's going to get to the bottom of it, no matter what. Slight AU, WINCEST.


**Author:** sangre antigua.

**Rating; Title; Pairing:** T; Different People; Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester.

**Summary:** Since coming back from Hell, Dean's a different man. Sam's going to get to the bottom of it, no matter what. Slight AU, WINCEST.

**Warning/Disclaimer:** Do not own _Supernatural._

**DO NOT READ IF YOU DO NOT AGREE WITH/LIKE SLASH/WINCEST.**

- - -

He didn't want to talk about it, but Sam wouldn't take "no" for an answer. When Dean tried to eat, Sam pried. When Dean tried to sleep, Sam pried. When Dean tried to _piss_, Sam pried. Sometimes, he was more subtle than others. He'd beat around the bush, asking in a mumble as he rubbed his shoulder against his chin, "Do you need to talk _now_?" By now, the words were blurred together for Dean. At first, every time he even mentioned _that place_, goosebumps would come alive on every centimeter of his skin. They rippled and came to the surface with a shiver that quaked through Dean's body. But, now, for the most part, he was numb to them. His skin still crawled, but it barely fazed him now. It bugged him that Sam was _still_ asking, and that most of the time Sam would block his path, trying to corner him in.

Dean was not a tiny, frightened animal. He didn't scurry away with his tail between his legs. He was a tormented man, who was trying his hardest to push the memory down. Push it as deep down as he could, because experiencing _that place_ was not something you forgot. Ever. The memories were burned onto his eyelids and flickered with such clarity that Dean reckoned that some part of him was still there, screaming and begging to be set free. Or, at least, to be put out of its misery. They danced over his thoughts and poked their ugly heads out at random intervals. Even now, though he's back on Earth living his life, the memories still plague him. To Dean, it was almost bad as being there again.

Hell on Earth.

Sam was going to try again. It was late at night and the door of the motel was dead-bolted and the chain was snugly in place. If Dean decided to get broody and say his classic, "I'm going out", Sam could get there first. The younger male sat on the edge of his own bed, his mind far from the scratchy hotel comforter and the cheap, seventies furniture. What should he try tonight? Dance around it like usual, or go in for the kill? He bit his tongue at his choice of words. "Dancing around it" and "going in for the kill" made it sound like a game. This was no game; it was very much real. And the reality was: Dean went to Hell, and he _still_ hadn't talked about it yet. Sam's theory was that, if he could talk about it, little by little, pre-Hell Dean would come soaring back. Or at least that this new post-Hell Dean would let him in. He was even more cloistered than pre-Hell Dean. The reclusive tendencies had peaked when Dean left for three days without a word, and had came back stinking as if he had swam in a pool of Jack Daniels. His only explanation? _He went out_.

Long fingers cracked, each knuckle popping as Sam pressed from his right pinky, all the way to the identical one on his left hand. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath before letting his hands fall, clasped, between his knees. He was going to go in for the kill, as he had so cruelly thought. Tonight, he would torch the bush and corner Dean. He wouldn't take any shit until his questions were answered. No matter how insensitive they were.

The air smelt faintly of mouthwash and toothpaste, and the smell got even stronger as the sink sounded and Dean quietly strolled out of the bathroom. He flashed a small smile to his brother and rummaged around in his bag on the coffee table near his bed. His back turned to Sam, the younger male envisioned his brother being flogged mercilessly for hours, or even days. He could see the flesh being stripped from his taut back; could see the blood running down, thick and strong, like when Moses turned the Nile to blood; could see his brother tensing in indescribable agony.

For a moment, Sam considered backing down.

Twenty minutes later and they were both in their respective beds. The lights were off and Dean was getting comfortable, but Sam was lying on his back, his creativity morbidly painting him pictures of Dean's time in Hell. They got worse and worse every time he blinked. Eventually, he stopped blinking. He let his eyes strain to stay open, staring at the curtain dancing above the vent near the window to occupy himself.

"Dean?" Sam whispered. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew Dean wouldn't answer him, but he could hear the other stirring in his bed, meaning that he was still awake. "Tell me about it." As usual, Dean remained silent. He scratched at his stubble and yawned as if Sam wasn't there. With a twinge of frustration in his creased brows, Sam continued: "Tell me about it, Dean. _Please_." Still nothing. Sam groaned softly. This was the usual routine. He'd question. Dean would remain silent. The same old song and dance was getting old. Sam knew the steps and was ready for something new.

The truth.

"Let me help you carry this," he proposed. He turned on his side to face Dean, whom was staring as the ceiling, his jaw clenched. The elder's hands were below the blanket, but Sam was positive his fists were clenched. "You can't do it alone. I can help you, Dean. I can _help_. I can take some of your burden. I can try to restore you to the old Dean, the one who didn't have these horrific movies playing in his head."

Since Sam had started questioning, Dean had been eager to give him the fifth degree. Why did he want to know about Hell? Did he want to know so he'd be prepared for later? Did he want to know _just_ what his brother went through to save him from dying? What was his problem? Blankly, he stared at the ceiling, thinking to himself about remaining silent or chewing Sam out. The latter seemed like a more relieving path, but the former was simpler. If he didn't say anything, Sam would eventually give up. He always did.

"I'll listen to you. It's what you need! I can help you with this! Dean, c'mon. Please, let me in." Jaw locked and eyes shining a warning of tears of frustration, Sam sat up and threw his feet over the edge of the bed. Swiftly, he rose to his feet, fluidly carrying his long legs to Dean's bed. He threw himself beside his brother, not caring if he landed on the other. He was going to get an answer, one way or another. "Let me in, Dean. _I can help_. I promise."

Still, Dean said nothing. He stared at the wall behind Sam and tightened his jaw even more, clenching his teeth together so much that it stung his whole face up to the lobe of his ear.

_Don't give in, _he thought, shaking his head at Sam. _He doesn't need to know. You don't want him to "help". He can't. You know it. He knows it. It's just going to be more of a burden._

"I can't sit here, helplessly, while it torments you every day. And don't say it doesn't, because I can see it in your eyes. You relive if every day, don't you? Don't you, Dean?" Sam's voice was softer now with his interrogation. He wanted to corner Dean, not thrust him against the wall, creating a giant hole; a mess to clean up. "I can help, and you know it."

To himself, Dean mumbled something. If he clenched any harder, his teeth would start chipping.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean said nothing.

"Dean, come the hell on!" The frustration swimming in Sam's gut caused tears to well up in his eyes. He blinked them away and clenched his jaw, almost mirroring Dean exactly.

"You know _nothing_ about Hell," Dean barked. His voice was distant and pained, striking a nerve in Sam and himself. "You know _nothing_."

Closer Sam scooted. "Inform me. I listen well, and I give good advice, and I give great hugs," he said with a soft smile, hoping to coax Dean passively.

The results were nothing like Dean expected. Inside Dean's stomach, a rage was building up. He flexed his fingers and flared his nostrils, trying to keep it down with the memories. But the rage was stronger than Dean could manage. He was tired and hadn't slept well since before going to Hell. His defenses were shot.

So, he exploded.

Unbelievably quick, Dean threw the sheets off of himself and clamored out of bed. He knocked Sam flat on his ass and bolted for the door, screaming out at Sam the whole way. "You can't _help_ me, Sam! I was in **Hell**, not some rehab facility! There is no helping, or consoling, or any of that Hallmark-card bullshit!"

Stunned, Sam almost didn't make it to the door before Dean. Long arms spread out across the door, Sam's body a barricade between the outside would and what Dean was running from. Dean took a swing and clocked him pretty good in the jaw. Sam's whole body screamed at the force, and he was flung back against the door by it. But he wasn't letting go. Not if Dean kicked or stabbed him.

"Talk to me," Sam grunted, breathing heavily between his words. He gripped on the door frame so firmly that his nails ached. "Now, Dean. And don't sugarcoat anything."

"I'm not telling you Jack about Hell!" There was a flash of torment in Dean's eyes that made Sam's chest go cold. But he wouldn't let up, not until this was cleared up. His resolve was stronger than solid iron.

"Yes, you are," countered Sam. Dean took another swing at his brother, words coming out of his mouth jumbled, like a river babbling angrily as it streams past you. Before it connected, Sam grabbed his brother's fist and used that to twist his arm and hold it behind Dean's back. Within Sam's grasp, Dean wriggled and thrashed about. A fish out of water, Dean was. Helpless and exhausted and forced into a corner by his younger brother.

"Lemme go!" Pleadingly he looked at Sam, hoping to strike a nerve. Hell was something Dean didn't want to talk about. Not to Sam, not to anyone. Ever. Why would they want to know about it? It wasn't pleasant, point blank. It was _Hell_. Wasn't that enough? "Sammy, I swear to the God I don't believe in, if you don't lemme go—!"

With a sad smile, Sam twisted Dean's arm more. Any more pressure and the bone would snap jaggedly in the male's arm. "You'll what? Give me hell? That's all I'm asking, Dean. Just talk to me."

"Why the fuck do you even want to know?" He was seething now, his rage well beyond overflowing. He continued to thrash, not even caring that Sam might actually break his arm. That was unimportant. Trivial; a flesh wound. What was important was sparing Sam the horrific images, and sparing himself the torment of being storyteller of the worst part of his "life" ever. "It's not sugarplums and gumdrops, Sam. It was _Hell_. Y'know, where they tell you to go when people tell you to 'go to Hell'. Now lemme go!"

With much effort, Sam managed to maneuver himself and his captive to one of the beds. He forced Dean on it and straddled his waist, keeping his arm pinned over Dean's chest to hold him down. Strong thighs clamped down around the body beneath him, like makeshift hand- and foot-cuffs. For extra measure, he kept Dean's arm twisted, altering its position only slightly. "Talk to me. Now."

Dean debated on spitting in Sam's face. Instead, he continued squirming about, awkardly moving himself beneath his brother's lower half.

Again, Sam twisted Dean's arm more. Underneath him, Dean writhed in pain. "Just tell me about it, Dean," he whispered. He was a veterinarian trying to calm down a frightened animal into compliance. He gave him puppy-dog eyes and a soft squeeze as the tranquilizer. "I'll let you go. I'll listen, and never ask about it again. If you tell me this once. Please, just think about it, Dean."

And he did. He saw Sam coming to terms with what Hell really meant for Dean. Inside his brother's big doe-eyes, he saw the mirrored torment and horror stained to the film of his eye. It would never go away; it would blur, but only barely. Could he do that to Sam? He could take having his arm twisted. He could take being pinned down. But hurting his brother like this was worse than any punch Dean could deal.

"You don't want to know," Dean finally choked out.

With another said smile, Sam answered, "Yes, I do. Just...tell me, Dean. Tell me about Hell." Slowly he released Dean's arm, keeping his arms pressing into the mattress on either side of his brother in case he needed to restrain him again. "Tell me, Dean. I want to help."

- - -

By the end of Dean's story, which Sam had to pull out of him by tooth and nail, they both felt cold inside. Sometime during the story, Sam had rolled off of his brother and laid beside him, lying in his arms with one arm draped over his brother's midsection. Absently, he rubbed circles into Dean's gut. It birthed butterflies of affection and fear in the elder male.

The air was heavy. It hurt for Dean to breathe. After Sam had rolled off, and Dean had gotten into towards the end of the story, he had started to cry. If Sam had noticed, he hadn't said anything. Dean tried to blink them away, but they wouldn't leave. Like Sam, they were his audience, and refused to leave until they had gotten their money's worth.

When the story was over, they laid there quietly, Sam trying to fathom Hell for Dean and Dean trying to control his tears without being noticed. He was spotted as Sam propped himself up with his free arm. With a cooing sound, Sam wiped them away with his bare hand, cool and calming against Dean's fiery cheek. He let his fingertips linger across Dean's flesh before letting the limb fall at his side.

"Dean...I'm so sorry. That won't ever cover it, but I am. If I had known—"

"If _I _had known, even before hand, I would go through it again. Sammy, I really couldn't lose you." Fresh tears sprung to Dean's eyes. He turned his head away, not even noticing that Sam had begun crying, as well. Mirrored eyes, both seeing the same torture scenes over and over. "I would go back to keep you from that."

The feeling that swelled up inside Sam was more than just love for his brother. It was a feeling different from anything he had ever felt, and he was unsure if he liked it or not. It made him warm all over, especially in his cheeks, and it made him smile in thanks at his brother. How lucky was he to have a brother like Dean? Strong, self-sacrificing Dean...

"I would go to Hell and back, _again_, to keep you from that. You're...you're not Hell material, Sammy." Trying his hardest not to choke on his words, Dean wiped at his own tears before looking over at Sam. He frowned at Sam's tears and wiped them away, as well. The other's flesh was hot as fire beneath the palm of Dean's hand. "I'm back now, Sammy. There's no need to cry." His voice took a soft turn and all of the ice in Sam's chest melted. He leaned against Dean and sucked in air like he hadn't breathed in ages, clinging to his arm for dear life. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Sam looked up, his doe-eyes locking with Dean's soft ones. "Promise?" he whispered.

"I promise." Without thinking, he leaned down and kissed Sam's forehead, something he hadn't done since Sam was four-years-old. They both blinked at each other, faces inches apart, before allowing their lips to meet. The kiss was as soft as rain and tasted like tears and relief. Hastily they parted, staring at each other in disbelief. "Sammy, this is—" Dean began, only to be cut off by Sam's lips crashing back against his own. This kiss was forceful compared to the one prior. The need for contact drove Sam to the point of using so much force that their lips grew plump and bruised. But neither of them pulled away. They continued to kiss, breathing heavily through their noses, until they were tangled in each other's arms.

When they finally broke away, they laid forehead-to-forehead with their eyes closed for some time. Neither of them said anything. They just caught their breath in jagged successions, Sam inhaling and then Dean inhaling, and Sam exhaling and Dean following suit. It felt like forever before Sam pecked Dean's lips again, his mouth a sad smile against Dean's confused one.

"What...was that?" Dean whispered, afraid to open his eyes. Dean had seen some messed up things in Hell. They all felt so wrong, but he was forced into that hand either way. But this...this was on a whole knew level. Nothing was forcing him into it except for him and his _need_ for it. The need was a beast in his stomach freshly awakened. The taste of Sam still lingered on Dean's tongue, and he swallowed hard to savor whatever was left of it.

"I don't know," Sam answered with a voice just as hushed. He fiddled with his fingers and bit at his lower lip. "Did it...how did it feel...for you?"

It felt right. So very _right_. And now it felt like he needed to do it again to breathe. But he couldn't tell that to Sam. _Sammy_, of all people. "I don't know," Dean said simply, his voice dazed. "I really don't know."

Again, they laid in silence. Sam breathed softly against Dean's collarbone, giving birth to new goosebumps, ones that caused another quake to rake through Dean's body. But this one was pleasant. It made his toes curl and his stomach flush warm.

"This is wr—"

"Wrong, I know."

"We can't—"

"I know, Dean, I know."

"Why us? Why _now_?"

"...We're different people now, Dean." The answer left Sam's mouth before he even processed the answer. Were they different people? It sure seemed like it. Before, Sam would have kicked and screamed about kissing his brother. But, now, it felt right. His body longed for it.

Not having a better answer, Dean sighed in agreement. He turned his head to look to his brother, taking in the head of shaggy brown hair he saw first, then the tanned, sculpted face and the soft, affectionate doe-eyes blinking back at him. Lastly, he eyed his brother's plump pink lips. Why did he want to kiss them so bad? And when had it become any less than wrong for him to think this way.

Sam leaned up hesitantly and pressed their lips together again. Dean leaned down into the kiss, gaining entrance to Sam's mouth after brushing his tongue against Sam's lips. In turn, the organ was sucked on, and the feelings that fluttered within Dean's stomach were embraced, not shut away.

"I guess we are different people," Dean whispered.


End file.
